A proof that Californians hustle too much

Sometimes I think that the only two places I want to live in the world are Lapland and San Francisco. Then I remember Vienna. The odd thing about Vienna and San Francisco is that they both have excellent wine and excellent coffee, but neither the wines nor the coffees resemble the other city’s excellences in the least. These notes bubles up after seeing Quinn’s no blogging sign. This would make no sense in Vienna, where everyone writes while waiting in coffee houses, and has done so since before typewriters — but no one queues for coffee standing up. Proof, I think, that Californians are too energetic to be truly civilised.

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I scarcely dare mention Mark Steyn

But this tale of apparent plagiarism is very funny.

On the other hand, when so much of political discourse consists of repeating “talking points”, I can see that this kind of thing might be easy.

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Read and weep

The Diebold voting machines used in at least three states in the USA — California, Pennsylvania and Iowa — boot Windows CE off PCMCIA cards, in slots accessible to anyone with three minutes and a phillips screwdriver. They will also reflash their own bios from such cards, and there is another SD card slot on the motherboard, into which you could put, I don’t know, a wireless card …

It is almost impossible to overstate how insecure this is. It’s like swapping out proper sealed ballot boxes for prettily painted ones made of tupperware.

Get the details here

Posted in nördig | Comments Off on Read and weep

The roots of subservience

Very long, and characteristically thoughtful piece from Billmon on the NSA surveillance state, which contains one fresh point that I think is important, and not widely made. Americans put up with a degree of interference and minute control from their employers which is far greater than anything that governments would try outside of, say, North Korea. This is, by some strange alchemy, taken to be proof that Americans are much more free than those poor miserable Swedes, Germans, French, etc, ground down as they are beneath the socialist jackboot. Similarly, there is far more servility in American public life than in supposedly less independent societies. Both these trends, of course, come together perfectly in the automated voice mail, which lies to you in the most fulsome and grovelling tones while ignoring all of your actual wishes. But one effect of this is to numb them to what governments actually do. Freedom for corporations actually also means greater powers for government, since it accustoms citizens to being treated as disposable playthings. Take it away, mon:

The millions of Americans, like yours truly, who work in the corporate or public sector white collar world have already grown accustomed to a loss of personal privacy and a degree of social control that make Pentagon data mining look like an ACLU fundraising dinner.
We know our phone calls and emails may be and often are monitored, that company net nannies will stop us from visiting certain web sites (and not just porn pages: I’ve been blocked out of labor union sites, progressive political sites – even that notorious left-wing web magazine, Slate.) We know that if we say the wrong thing to a company snitch it could be reported to our supervisors, that those reports could end up in our personnel files, and that really serious thought crimes could cost us our jobs. We know the security cameras may record when we walk in the door and when we leave. We know we can’t make certain jokes or raise certain topics because they might be construed as sexual harassment. We know how to smile and feign enthusiasm when the pointy-haired boss has a really dumb idea. We know what a cult of personality looks like, because it looks like our CEO.
Blue collar workers, of course, have always had their own authoritarian regimes to contend with — tougher in some ways (I’ve worked under both) but easier in others. At least most shops don’t expect the rank and file to act like the smiling idiots in the latest corporate training film (not unless the Total Quality Management gurus have seized power.) But in cubicle world it’s Outer Party rules all the way – even if the cafeteria food and the Victory gin are both better.
It’s true that however bad it may be, the corporate workplace is only an 8-hour police state, one you can tunnel free of every night. But it is a training ground of sorts, a place where habits of thought and social roles are acquired and reinforced – patterns that are then reflected in the popular culture. The lesson learned is submission to authority, or at least the passive acceptance of hierarchical relationships. It teaches people to be good bureaucrats, and good bureaucrats understand that if the organization is tapping phones – or infecting test subjects with syphilis or dumping toxic waste in rivers or shipping undesirable people off to concentration camps – it must have a good reason.
The result is a social contract that owes a lot to Thomas Hobbes. In exchange for the economic security that corporations provide – a degree of shelter from an anarchic global market – we willingly, if grudgingly (at least in my case) give up a hefty share of our freedom and an even bigger chunk of our privacy. Having made that bargain, we’re not really in a good position to object if the company proves more intrusive than we expected, for as Hobbes says, “he that complaineth of injury by his sovereign complaineth of that which he is the author and therefore ought not to accuse any man but himself.”

Posted in War | 2 Comments

Pareidolia notes

Some of you may have wondered what happened to the grilled cheese sandwich on which appeared an image of the Virgin Mary some years back It was auctioned on Ebay for $28,000 and then seemed to vanish. If you had supposed it had been retired to a place of private veneration, you were wrong. It resurfaced "in the Atlantic Magazine":http://www.theatlantic.com/doc/200605/competitive-eating last month, in an article on competitive eating, called "Horsemen of the Oesophagus" (being American, they can’t spell "Oesophagus" but we will overlook that).

It is one of the nicest pieces of journalism I have read all year. Here is the pitch man introducing a show:

Shea has sensitive features, an aristocratic nose, and neat black hair. He’s good-looking, compact. Perfect posture. His voice is melodious but powerful—precise, all syllables enunciated, with the pitch control of a cabaret singer and the gestural excess of a dinner-theater Hamlet.

"It is the bane of our species," he says, "that we are warped most when we know it the least, ladies and gentlemen. It is time to put aside the pursuits that push us through our day, because this change is here today as an athletic and religious experience. TODAY WE HOLD THE GOLDEN PALACE-DOT-COM WORLD GRILLED CHEESE EATING CHAMPIONSHIP! An all-you-can-eat contest that will stand as an homage, as a recognition, a dramatic illustration of the message delivered [to] us by the Virgin Mary Grilled-Cheese Sandwich!"

The music softens. Shea ushers onstage the representative of GoldenPalace.com, Steve Baker. In November 2004, Baker bought the sandwich for $28,000 on eBay, hoping to use it for promotional stunts like this one. Wearing a grubby sweatshirt, jeans, and two-day stubble, Baker raises the Virgin Mary Grilled Cheese above his head and proclaims, "The Passion of the Toast lives!"

Baker steps down into the crowd, now a sea of limbs holding digital cameras and angling for a keepsake shot. He parades the sandwich, which Shea calls "the culinary version of the Shroud of Turin," into the throng, and then places it on an easel at the side of the stage to make way for the eaters.

and here is one of the competitors in "America’s fastest-growing sport:

Ed, pushing 400 pounds, was also trying to lose weight. The day I talked to him, he was pondering an upcoming cannoli contest. He was the cannoli champ but was thinking about not defending his title. "It’s rough on the body," he said. "One, you’re eating eleven thousand calories. Two, there’s no money. Three, all that said, the bottom line is: What am I doing this for? I’m basically putting eleven thousand calories into my body with the chance I could get hurt. What for? There’s gotta be a cause."

Actually, the question that I feel needs answering is "What the hell are Cannoli?" But it hardly matters. The eaters will eat anything, providing there is enough of it. The equivalent score to a par in golf is apparently twenty Nathan’s hot dogs – two kilos of solid food and 6,180 calories, washed down with as much water as you like – all consumed in twelve minutes.

The other nice thing to emerge from the article is that the really outstanding performers are mostly foreigners, and all thin.

Posted in Journalism | 1 Comment

Friday pike blogging

I was down on the river yesterday afternoon and wandered further down than I have ever gone before, through a field of "setaside", which means that the EU pays farmers to leave it wholly wild. The result is mostly nettles, brambles, thistles and birds of every sort who spring up when I push my way through the waist-high greenery.

Eventually, like stout Cortez, I trampled through to an elbow bend shaded by an alder tree, with sheer banks four feet high. Something whitish and pinky-red unfurled in the water at my feet and I realised I was looking at the tail fin of the biggest wild carp I have ever seen close up. I’d estimate between five or six pounds, though more knowledgeable people might have thought the fish a chub. They would not have disagreed about the size. I was mesmerised, watching as this great square fin worked unhurriedly and other portions of the fish’s body flickered in and out of visibility, golden and bronze in the bronze sunlit water. The fish – it must have been a chub — moved slowly forwards and way from the current, until it was poised in fairly open water, and then past it, unhurriedly downstream, swam a trout that was skinny by comparison, but twice the size of any other I have seen caught from here. There are parts of the river where that trout’s back would stick out of the water as it swam. I watched for about ten minutes – I had no rod with me – just marvelling as it patrolled the bend, occasionally opening white lips to swallow something in the water.

This afternoon I returned with a rod and waders, and tried to stalk up to the pool from below. The bottom was level chalk, at first knee deep, getting deeper and softer as I moved upstream cautiously, with pauses between each step. During one of these pauses I saw what I took to be a dead bullrush a little ahead of my left foot. Then I realised it was a pike about two feet long, russet brown in the tea-coloured water, lying sunk into the muck. I thought that it must be dead, it was so still. Not a fin moved, nor even a gill cover. But when I was close enough to poke it with my rod, and wondering whether to do so, it roused itself and swirled off the bottom and upstream, leaving a puffy cloud of silt where it had been lying.

About three yards further up, and rather closer to the shore, I found it lying dead still again, behind a weedbed. Again, it looked completely inert. Fragments of vegetable matter would drift down in the current and rub against it without provoking any reaction. I put on a little weighted nymph that looked like a tiny fish, and swung this into the current above the fish. It came past at eye level. Nothing. I did this three or four times, with no response at all, and finally the nymph came down right in front of the fish’s nose. When it touched the pike, I lifted, very gently, and the whole fish rose in the water, fins flaring, a faint weight on my rod. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to catch it: they’re not good eating at this time of year, and removing a hook from an angry, live pike is no fun at all. They have six rows of teeth across the top of their mouths, and the whole of the top of their tongues are covered in teeth as well.

Stalemate. The fish hung in the water, doing as little as possible, with its jaw just resting on my hook. Once upon a time, the presence of all that concentrated malice would have run up my arm and made me set the hook without hesitation, killing him as surely as he would have killed me if he had had the chance. It’s the only truly mindless violence that I know. It’ swhat small boys go fishing for. But this afternoon I just tugged the pike sideways a little, so that he twitched and shot away from the hook into a weed bed.

I never did see the big trout again, either.

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Getting paid

OK — so I travel to the European Patent Office in Munich to do a day’s unpaid consultancy. They put me up for two nights in a nice hotel, and I get to meet some interesting people. It seems a fair deal. They have of course agreed to pay my expenses. Here is what happened when I try to get them paid.

First I get a nice note from the administrator asking me to submit them, along with my bank details.

I send in a normal claim, to her, for the stuff I had receipts for: train tickets to Heathrow, my air fare from there, and the hotel bill. All these I had paid for, off my own credit card.

Back comes a note from someone in the accounts department:

In order for the European Patent Office to reimburse your expenses regarding the above mentioned seminar, a new invoice is requested with the addition of the following compulsory information (see also Directive 2001/115/EC of 20 December 2001 related to all fiscal authorities in the EU-countries):
* Invoice number;
* The Agreement No. to which the reimbursement relate;
* Reason as to why no VAT is charged;
* Bank details as IBAN (International Bank Account Number) and BIC (Bank Identifier Code) codes.

Also a polite note from the Administrator (a nice, competent woman to whom I had talked in person) saying that she is sorry for the trouble, but would I please remember to charge the hotel bill as “fixed accommodation fee” and use that phrase. OK.

So I start from the bottom: what is an IBAN? I know. I will ask my bank. Their number is in my contacts book. It’s unobtainable, of course. Everything has gone over to centralised voice mail. Looking up “HSBC Saffron Walden” on the BT directory enquiries, I get back three pages of listings for various bits of HSBC, not one of them in Saffron Walden and very few anywhere near it. But half way down the second page of the listing is a number for “HSBC Customers”, so I dial that.

Three voice mail menus later, I get through to a Glaswegian male, or possibly an artificial stupidity programmed with Glaswegian male friendliness towards the English. He needs to know my account number, my date of birth, and two digits from my security number before he can even listen to my question.

I ask my question. He goes off to speak to a supervisor. After a while, he comes back. “We only deal with mortgage enquiries on this number” he says. Try 0845-something else.

The number is unobtainable. I look it up again, dial, go through two menus, punch in my account number, my date of birth, and two digits of my security number; a robot voice asks where I want to transfer money. I realise I am dealing with a voice interface to the web form I could have reached fifteen minutes ago, if that was what I had wanted to do. I also realise that at some stage in this interaction I have started to shout “FUCK Off!” every time I hear a robot voice.

I shout this one more time, then once more for luck. I hang up. I redial. A robot asks me for my account number. I know what to do now. I shout my little slogan as soon as I hear its voice. Then I enter my account number. A robot asks — I shout — I enter my date of birth. A robot — I shout — I enter two digits of my security number. A rob — I shout — asks me to re-enter the two digits. I count out the digits of my security number on my knuckles and enter the right too. There is a silence. I fill my lungs and wait. There is a r- no, a voice, and I just manage to exhale.

The voice is human, and apparently Chinese.

The number I want, she says, is on the bank statement. Before I can react to this news she adds that she will tell me anyway, and starts to read out a long code containing the letters M-I-D-L-A which clearly mean nothing to her. But they make me feel very very old, since they are clearly the remains of the Midland Bank, which was what HSBC was called when I first opened an account with them and their branches were staffed — between ten and three i the afternoon — with human beings to whom I could go and ask for money or advice so that they could tell me to fuck off.

I thank the Chinese woman and hang up. Back to the invoice. I give it a number — 000666 — but I haven’t got the contract agreement, because they posted me a copy which I signed and sent back. After all, I wasn’t being paid for this gig, so why would I need a contract? I emailed back to the administrator asking if she had the number, since she certainly had my contract. Then I rummage around the hard disk and discover four PDF copies of the agreement, which had all been sent as attachments to the emails announcing that a copy would be posted to me.

So why aren’t I charging VAT? I don’t know. I am so puzzled that eventually I ring Munich and talk to the woman to whom I have been emailing. She has no idea, except that it is important. She will ask the finance department and call me back; twenty minutes later I get an email saying that the reason is really simple: So, here it is, the sentence for the reason for exemption of VAT: ‘Exemption for deliveries of goods and services to international organisations according to Directive 77/388/EEC Art. 15 para 10 and Directive 92/12/EEC Art. 23 para 1’. Please write this sentence into your invoice.

I wonder if anyone would notice if I changed a digit. I ask her if I can send her a PDF so that she can print it out and give it to the accounts department. No, no, it has to be posted. And don’t forget the fixed fee for accommodation. So I change the words “Hotel Bill 287 Euros” to “Fixed Fee Accommodation” and then it occurs to me to read the contract to see what was agreed and this turns out to be a fee of 350 Euros, even though they had booked the hotel and might have known what it would cost. The discrepancy, I decide, represents a form-filling fee. I enter the stipulated amount and study the invoice once more. What’s missing now? Ah, under the boilerplate explaining why I don’t need to pay VAT they are going to want my VAT number. So I add that, carefully, and then put on the final touch — a figure from a Mexican dingbat font representing the man who waits in a government office:

skelly.jpg

Finally I send off a PDF to the nice woman in Munich so she can see if there are any mistakes, and post a copy too for her to give to the accounts department. I wonder if I should invoice her for VAT on the stamp.

Posted in Blather | 7 Comments

Told you so

Now that Bush and Blair are racing each other to the bottom of the polls, I remembered one of the most unpopular things I ever wrote, a Worm’s Eye column nearly two years old today. I stole one of the ideas from Matthew Parris: essentially the argument was that, since Bush and his policies were doomed, it was best that he win the election so that he and his gang could be blamed. If he lost, the catastrophe would have overwhelmed Iraq anyway, but it would have been blamed on the “liberals”. I might feel differently if I were American, and I would certainly do so if I lived in New Orleans. I got a great deal of angry and heartfelt mail from American voters as a result of this. But, still, I can claim that my slogan was prescient:

it is time for a new banner to march beneath, and this year mine will be something like “Anti-imperialists for Bush in 2004”. This will be a very small protest march, but let me try to recruit you to it anyway. The essential argument is very simple. It has to do with the intelligence of our opponents, the warmongering intellectuals. These people are not fools; in fact many of them are cleverer than I am. Some may even be cleverer, better-informed, and more practised at the exercise of power than the average Guardian reader. Yet it has taken this long for them to begin to admit that things are hopeless, and it will take another six months at least before the process is complete. It could take years.

Remember that the argument is no longer about the morality of the war, or its desirability. It is simply about whether defeat is inevitable; and it is hardly surprising that people who have invested so much prestige, and so many hopes, in the war, should resist the conclusion that it is already lost, and that the only question is when we accept defeat. They’ll be especially reluctant because it will be a real defeat; at the end of it, Britain, America, and indeed the whole world will be less secure than we were before the war started. We won’t be any richer, either.

If America is forced out of Iraq in a state of bitter and angry denial, looking, like Germany after 1918, for someone to blame, it will be a very unpleasant and dangerous neighbour for the rest of us; already one hears on the internet the argument that if only Fallujah were turned into a giant ash tray there would be no more trouble from the Iraqis. It’s quite possible that something like that will be tried, too, before defeat can be accepted.

The problem here is one of timing. Those at the front of events can clearly see nemesis ahead; but the mass of voters behind them is still filled with the original hubris of the enterprise. This will still be true in November, when America votes. It seems to me that if Senator Kerry is elected, he will either pull out at once, which will allow for the formation of a really dangerous myth that America has been defeated by its own liberals, or he will prolong the war. If he prolongs the war, he will bring to its command infinitely greater competence and courage than President Bush. That goes without saying. But is this really a good thing? If a salutary nemesis must overwhelm us, let it happen as soon as the hubristic can understand it, but no sooner.

So here I stand, with my lonely banner: “Vote Bush for a swifter, more certain nemesis”. Come back in two years and tell me I was wrong.

that was written on about the 11th of May 2004; published on the 13th.

Posted in War | 4 Comments

Reasons to love the BBC

Their monitoring service, from which I found this report of activities in Uzbekistan:

Excerpt from report by Uzbek Namangan TV on 29 April
[Presenter] Various measures to increase the effectiveness of work aimed at increasing people’s spirituality are being taken in the localities. In this respect, journalists of the Uzbek National TV and radio company are holding meetings in all regions of the Fergana Valley. Representatives of the company’s all TV channels took part at a meeting held in Pop District.
[Passage omitted: correspondent hails the population of Pop District for their contribution to the development of Uzbekistan]

No more whinges, please from BBC journos who find themselves holding meetings in all regions of Manchester.

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the world’s wierdest search engine

I have been playing with the Encyclopaedia Britannica which is available online to the ratepayers of Essex, along with a phenomenal number of other goodies, such as the OED, much of the Lexis-Nexis newspaper database, the DNB, and the Grove Dictionary of Music ($2,235.00 to you, sir, from Amazon, or £195.00 a year + VAT to read online).
In particular, I wanted to know about stones in the salivary ducts, one of which, my doctor told me this morning, is the cause of my present distress. On this topic, EB is less informative than wikipedia, and both are worse than the Merck Manual online. But the Encyclopaedia also boasts of its links to “selected web sources”, and here things get very strange. The search page gave me 8,317 hits on “Salivary glands”: of the top ten, two lead to 404 pages on WebMD, a pretty useless site even when it works. The other eight go to

When EB’s editors fulminate against the web, can it be because they use their own search engine?

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